


Are You Falling For Me (Like I'm Falling For You)?

by Jedi Buttercup (jedibuttercup)



Category: King Arthur: Legend of the Sword (2017)
Genre: Big Bang Challenge, Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, M/M, Magic Made Them Do It, Multi, Post-Movie(s), Tropes, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-27 18:52:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12087216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedibuttercup/pseuds/Jedi%20Buttercup
Summary: In another world, what happened with Lancelot might have been the end rather than the beginning: a step toward the destruction of Camelot rather than a new-laid cornerstone.  But to a fighter who'd lived most of his life as a nothing from nowhere, who'd wed for trust rather than romance, a companion for bed and battlefield was the best dowry Arthur could have asked for.(A Magic Made Them Do It story, with a twist.)





	Are You Falling For Me (Like I'm Falling For You)?

**Author's Note:**

> Every year I've participated in fandom, I've tried to challenge myself to write something new; in this my sixteenth year of writing, I decided to finally make an attempt at the Explicit category and some of its associated tropes for the 2017 Iddy Iddy Bang Bang.
> 
> Prompted by a reread through that ancient collection of iddy tropes, the Matter of Britain, and Big Hollywood's latest take on it, the very pretty and also very iddy "King Arthur: Legend of the Sword." If you recognize anything here that wasn't in the movie, it's not mine; in particular, I borrowed Ioan Gruffudd's Lancelot from the 2004 King Arthur movie, then stirred in a lot of bits and pieces from my copy of "The Romance of Arthur" to fill out the worldbuilding. :)
> 
> Mind the tags. Title is, of course, a quote from KA: LOTR. Subscribes to the theory that the Mage is Guinevere.

Art drew a deep breath as Rubio's cousin bowed his way out of the throne room, and turned to lift his eyebrows at his wife. "Well. That was a little ... unexpected. Some kind of magic, do you think?"

Guinevere, when she was actually at Camelot and not off helping her people rebuild, usually sat at his side with a cool disinterest, collecting all the facts before giving him her unvarnished opinion. He valued that frankness in her, and had found it an invaluable tool in his adaptation from Boss of a small neighbourhood in Londinium to King of all bloody England, just as it had been in his growth from brothel-raised bastard to wielder of Excalibur. One of the many reasons he'd proposed the business arrangement of their marriage.

Today, though, there was nothing cool about the woman he still thought of first as the Mage; her cheeks were flushed, the pupils of her changeable eyes dilated in a way that had nothing to do with communion with wild animals, and he could see the pulse beating swiftly in her pale throat. She'd never been very physically demonstrative; her opinion of the usual relations between men and women were pretty much the same as his, in that they were an occasionally useful means of manipulating others but not particularly appealing in and of themselves. Another reason he'd been certain they'd make a complimentary match. For her to look _any_ man that way ... there was definitely something a little unusual about this Lancelot.

She swallowed, then looked up to meet his gaze, eyes bright. She swiftly glanced over the evidence of his own reaction – pretty much the same as hers, strange in his case mostly due to the context – and curled her mouth in a bemused smile. "A very particular kind," she agreed. "But Bors would not have knowingly brought such here; it must be Claudas' doing. I suppose now we know where the rogue mages have gone. We were warned they would make a move, but this choice is ... unexpected."

Rubio – so nicknamed by Bedivere's rabble for his unusually fair hair – had been raised by one of the barons close to Vortigern after his father Bors the Elder's murder. Because of that, and because of the secrets he'd revealed under torture while the Blacklegs held him in the cells under the castle, he was understandably sensitive about anything that might give the slightest whiff of disloyalty. His younger brother Lionel was still in Claudas' retinue, and their darker-haired cousin, he'd said, had been well-received there as a guest – the main reason Rubio had proposed Lancelot to the empty seat at the Table. A famed knight whose father had been one of Uther's loyalists, yet was respected by the still-fractious barons, had seemed a good choice.

"You think he's aware of it?" Art cast his gaze around the rest of the court; they'd be having a meeting of the Table that evening, so most of his closest advisors were already at Camelot. 

Of the others, Kay, Maggie, Goosefat, and Wet Stick seemed to be having similar, if much milder reactions; Kay and Tristan, particularly, were exchanging the same sort of bemused glances Art and his queen had. The rest – Bedivere, George, Percy and Blue – looked uncomfortable, as if there was something that disturbed them about the knight but they weren't entirely sure what. Lancelot hadn't paid any of them much mind, most of his focus on King and Mage, and he'd been more courteous than anything with _them_ ; the effect that he was having seemed all out of proportion to his behaviour.

"He doesn't seem the type," she replied, pursing her mouth as she made the same observations. "Sure of himself, but not _that_ sure. And he's said to have been blessed by the Lady of the Lake; she would never have done so if he had that sort of reputation."

"True," he said, then cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. It had been years since he'd had so little control over his own arousal; it was a little disconcerting. "Waiting it out might prove to be a problem, though."

Assuming they were right – Art rather doubted Lancelot's benefactors had had _that_ in mind when they'd done whatever they'd done to amplify the knight's appeal. But then, that was typical of his uncle's nobles; they tended to assume he had the same tastes Vortigern had, and in more arenas than just the pursuit of power. There'd been a reason the old families had sent Maggie to join Vortigern's household, though he hadn't remarried since the death of his wife.

"Hmmm. The effect does seem to ... persist," Guenivere agreed, smirking at him as her attention dropped to his lap. "If this feeling is… common, then I begin to see why your brothel was so popular, I think."

Her eyes were still sparkling as their eyes met again; he felt his skin flush hot at the electricity in that gaze. And not just because of the reflection he saw there of his own reaction. The dark fall of the Mage's hair against her pale shoulder, the delicate hollow at the base of her throat, the way her gown draped over the swell of her breasts, all of it only added to the fire in his blood. For most of his adult life, women had been either business partners or business themselves, to be treated seriously, not as objects of excitement; but he _was_ familiar with the burn of lust, and the pleasure of sharing it with a likeminded companion.

For the first time in months, he found himself wondering what she'd sound like in the throes of passion, and offered her his best cocky smile. He doubted Lancelot's benefactors had expected _that_ , either – and of all the possible ways he could think of to test the spell's effects, it seemed the least likely to trip anyone up. "Yeah? Well, if you'd like to explore that at all, just let me know. My sword is, as always, at your service."

She laughed at him, but set her hand on his wrist, abandoning the usual careful space maintained between them. And when the court session came to a close a short while later, a crooked finger and a teasing comment about sheaths were more than enough to convey her acceptance of the offer.

One thing about Camelot that never ceased to surprise Art was the sheer magnificence of its furnishings; his uncle may have been many things, but no one had been able to fault the man's sense of style. He knew he must have been used to something similar when he was a tiny prince instead of a brothel brat, but he had almost no memories of those early days, and the sheer decadence and unfamiliarity of his surroundings more often than not still made him feel like a thief even in his own rooms.

Or like a disguised lover, sneaking past the guards to enthral their Queen. Which, he supposed, had been the point today. Not that any of _his_ guards would have mistaken Lancelot's dark curls and proud stride for their rough-hewn Boss. He grinned at the thought as he unbuckled his sword belt, then guided his wife back toward the bed, sweeping aside the hangings and setting his fingers to the fastenings of her gown.

The Mage wasn't inclined to let him take his time about it; the spell's effects still burned on in Lancelot's absence. She made an impatient noise and turned in his arms, sweeping her hair aside to give him better access to the laces. "Surely you can do better than that. Or do I need to do it all myself?"

"Can't a man enjoy himself a little? You have such beautiful skin," he replied, brushing callused fingertips down the column of her back as it the fabric parted to reveal it.

The scar on her shoulder from the fight in the old bathhouse had already healed to a faint line, accenting rather than marring the silky smoothness under his hands. Art hadn't often seen skin like hers in the brothel, not even among the girls who spent the most on their beauty routines; nobles hadn't often wandered down to the bridge, but some of the richer merchants and no few Blackleg sergeants had. But just living a working life wore on a body, and none of the Mage's years showed on hers at all. He didn't even know if she was older than he was – not that it truly mattered, either way.

The dress pooled around her waist as she impatiently shrugged it off; she shivered under his touch, then looked up at him over her shoulder. "No need to flatter me; we both know I'm not to your taste. And with this magic between us, I hardly need the encouragement."

He'd been savouring the heat building under his skin while he took the time to appreciate her; their official bedding to anchor his reign to the land and its people had gone well enough as such things go, but it had been more functional than pleasurable, too awkward with their newness and lack of desire for much in the way of exploration. He snorted at her dismissal, and leaned down to press a kiss against the scar. 

"I don't need to have a taste for something to appreciate its beauty. Yours may be wilder than most, but believe me, no one wonders why I chose you as my Queen." He shifted his lips then to the pulse-point in her throat, then the delicate shell of her ear, callused fingertips bracketing her bare waist as he pulled her against him. "I rather plan to enjoy this, as long as you're sure the magic won't harm us."

Another shiver passed through her, and her head tipped back, exposing more of her throat. "No," she murmured, "I would know by now if it would, especially if it's the spell I think it is." Then she reached up and pulled Art down to meet her, lips hungrily devouring his.

She turned in his grasp as they kissed, freeing her hands to tug at the hem of his shirt, then tugged it up over his head just far enough to leave only his hands trapped by the fabric. Then she shot him a wicked glance and cut her hand sharply through the air, gesturing toward the buckles securing his trousers.

The brush of her magic felt, for one brief second, like it did when he channelled the power of Excalibur; a coil of molten energy lashed through his body, tenting his cock out against the comfortably worn leather. "This is going to be over a lot sooner than I'd like if you keep _that_ up. Unless you _want_ me to have an inappropriate reaction the next time I take up the Sword?"

She laughed, low in her throat, as he freed his hands and finished stripping off his clothes, then tipped her back against the blankets. Her pale skin was flushed halfway down to her navel as their hands worked jointly to finish peeling off her dress, and her nipples tightened under his gaze as they were exposed to the chill air of the stone-walled room. "As if you don't half the time already; the blade crossed your lifelines when you were three years old. It's no wonder you can do things with it that even your father couldn't."

"So either you're saying _Excalibur_ is my closest companion. Or ... I think I feel a joke coming on here," Art replied teasingly, sweeping his thumbs over the soft skin of her inner thighs.

She caught her breath shakily and sank her fingertips into his shoulders, giving him an admonishing look. "Shut up and enjoy me already; I'd like to be clear headed before the meeting. It'll be easier to deal with if I can see the entire shape of the spell before I encounter it again."

"Sure, and that's the _only_ reason," he replied, smirking, then leaned in to brush the sensitive places his fingers had been only moments before with his beard. "Well, your wish is my command, my lady."

She arched off the bed with a cry; his tongue found her wet and molten already, and the sound of her voice made his cock twitch against the bed, half a second from coming even without further contact. It was unreal; the lust swept through him like a tide, nearly impossible to ignore, washing in higher with every second of increased closeness between them. If they hadn't touched at all, maybe the burn would have been gentler, easier to put off – but as it was, it was like trying to swim against an undertow.

"Stop, _stop_ ," she objected breathlessly, hands tugging at his hair, "it's definitely going to be over a lot sooner than I'd like if you keep _that_ up. And if that is the resolving condition –"

Resetting things back the way they'd been before, and leaving him high and dry? He wiped the back of a hand across his mouth and grinned up at her. "Maybe next time."

Then he kissed his way up her stomach, taking the time to pause and worship at her breasts for a moment while he finished lining himself up. She wasn't particularly well endowed, not like some of the ladies who'd paid for his services, but she was wonderfully responsive there, crying out again and clawing at his shoulders when he abandoned them to take her mouth instead. They hadn't bothered pushing back the bedcovers or trying to shield themselves against the castle air, and he could feel the contrast between her hot hands scoring his back and the chill of the room as he buried himself in her with one long thrust.

She locked her legs around his, clutching him close as if she could merge them into one body the way her magic had tied them together the night of the wedding, and met and matched the urgent rhythm he was setting with every rock of her hips. He couldn't have said how long it went on; long enough to feel like forever, but not long enough to adjust, to feel any less like an intruder in his own skin. He met her gaze as their rhythm started to falter, feeling unutterably lucky that of all the women in Britain he could have wed, the one he'd trusted with his kingdom had chosen to trust him back; he didn't think he'd have been as eager to do this with anybody else. In her hands, curses turned into blessings, and weaknesses into strengths.

" _Mage_ ," he growled, voice thick with affection as he came.

" _My king_ ," she murmured back, her inner walls clenching around him as she joined him in release.

They slumped together then, breathing hard as their blood started to cool; then grimaced together as the magic faded with an abrupt drain of energy. Almost between one breath and the next, she changed from the most enticing creature he'd ever seen to the sworn sister she'd been before, and he could see in her expression the exact moment when her own languid enjoyment turned to baffled distaste for the mess they were left with. It might have been more disconcerting if he hadn't grown up in a brothel, but true attraction so rarely played a part in the business, it was actually more familiar than the sex itself.

"So that's what all the fuss is about," she mused, smirking at him as she slowly sat up and reached for her dress. "An interesting experience, though I think in the long term it would be quite distracting."

"Yeah, that's what all the fuss is about," he agreed good-humouredly, casting around for a cloth to wipe themselves clean with. "There's a reason Goosefat thought he could get away with hiding among the patrons of a brothel; they're always busy. Just his bad luck we'd already stirred up Greybeard and the rest of Hengist's envoys the day he came to mine."

She clucked her tongue. "Too bad he didn't recognise you then; much difficulty might have been averted."

"Just as well he didn't; I'd never have believed him without the Sword to back it up. And I don't think anyone else would have, either. Everyone still thought I was the bastard son of a prostitute until I picked it up, remember? Or don't you recall him slapping me across the face for calling him honey tits?"

The Mage laughed softly, then shook her head, turning her back to him again to re-lace what he'd eagerly undone only minutes before. "It would always have come to you somehow, you know; you are who you are, and it is what it is. Whether your father had lived another dozen years, or you were fostered among the mages instead of Vortigern, or your dreams brought you the truth before your uncle's men caught you. One way or another, you were destined to be King."

He wrinkled his nose as he shrugged his shirt back on, imagining what the puffed-up prick he might have been as a castle-raised fifteen-year-old might have made of the companions he had now. He'd take men like Wet Stick and Back Lack – Tristan and Lleu, if he wanted to be proper about it – over the likes of Mercia and Mischief John any day. But would a man raised to expect obeisance, instead of experiencing what men of power do to those they think lesser, have been able to see their true worth?

"Least this way, I suppose, I've got a pretty solid idea who my friends are." 

"Then let's go see if this Lancelot shall be one of them," his wife replied, matter-of-factly.

"And if that takes more than one meeting?" He arched an eyebrow at her, gesturing with his chin toward the mussed bed. It had to be even stranger for her; desire wasn't a regular thing for her at all.

"You did say, maybe next time?" She smirked back. "It would be a waste not to make use of the opportunity."

He laughed. It would certainly solve matters he hadn't been eager to press if they got an heir out of it; all to the better if they actually enjoyed the begetting. Not that he was in any great hurry to perpetuate the line. The dynasty begun by Aurelius Ambrosius was only three generations old, and every one of them struck through by murder, jealousy and war. "You know, back when we were first getting to know each other, it seemed as if every bit of magic that crossed our path was _you won't like this_ , or _no one likes that_. Reasons aside, I don't mind stumbling over a more pleasant version for a change."

Her amusement slipped a bit, something distant shifting behind her eyes, and she lifted a hand to his cheek. "I suspect there's a reason they thought to use this spell on us; one they no doubt framed as poetic justice. But yes, it _is_ pleasant to turn it to our own purposes."

He'd just been thinking along those lines – but the reference to the popular rumours about Queen Igraine's first husband and the rather odd circumstances of his death and her remarriage took him aback all over again at the reminder that such stories were actually about _him_. He had only one concrete memory of the lovely blonde woman who'd been his mother: the moment of her death at the hands of the devil in his nightmares. And he hadn't even known who she was to him before he'd set his hands on Excalibur.

Of course his parents' story had been no less complicated than his. But who was he to judge, in the end? What mattered now was what _they_ did with the dice-throw that had been cast, not the tale someone else wanted to make of it.

"Not that I'm at all familiar with that sort of scenario, or anything," he said, dryly. "They really should have picked a better target."

The shadows lifted from her expression, and she smiled as they exited the chamber once more.

They weren't the last ones to take their seats at the Table that evening, but they weren't the first, either; Art caught a raised eyebrow from Wet Stick and a sardonic smirk from Goosefat when they came in, expressions just as eloquent as those on the guards who'd been outside his chambers that afternoon.

"Sir Tristan," he greeted them, forbiddingly. "Sir William."

"Aw, don't be like that, Boss," Wet Stick replied for the both of them, grinning. "It's just good to see the two of you getting on so well. No offense, my lady, but you're gone often enough the people sometimes talk; this afternoon'll supply a lot more pleasant grist for that particular mill."

"Then it's fortunate I will be absent less often in future," she said, nodding to Art in confirmation. "My people have nearly finished settling Avalon – the place that was once the Darklands. Now that they are no longer running for their lives, my time will be more my own."

"That is good to hear, my Queen," Bedivere said, entering the room and taking his place halfway around the Table from Arthur. "The King is _much_ less difficult with you at his side."

The others filtered in after him, those who'd heard Bedivere's comments murmuring amused agreement. Blue took what they referred to as Back Lack's seat between Art and Tristan, Kay and then George sat between Wet Stick and Bedivere, Percival and Rubio bracketed the empty seat they'd be discussing that evening, then Goosefat was followed by Maggie before finishing up with the Mage at Art's right hand. It was a well-mixed group: three women, two people who'd held seats in Uther's court and one who'd been a part of Vortigern's, five from the rebellion and five from the streets, old families mixing with those who claimed no blood at all. And every last one of them stubborn and not afraid to speak their minds.

"Is that so?" his queen replied archly.

"...And that's enough of _that_ ," Arthur cleared his throat, gesturing to the servants to bring the wine. "We're not here to discuss my opinions about the surviving Blacklegs today; we're here to discuss Bors' proposal for the empty seat. Remember, we're all equals round the Table, so it's important all of you be able to work with him, as well. First impressions, then?"

Goosefat and Bedivere exchanged a long look; then Bill nodded to Rubio. "It was well known at court that Lancelot's father was no more a fan of Claudas than his brother Bors the Edler; when Claudas declared for Vortigern and took Bors' children, Ban fled to Gaul and raised his own children there. So we don't know his upbringing as well as we otherwise might. But since he came back to Britain, the stories have been fairly consistent. An honourable, good-natured young man, very skilled with those twin swords of his, admired or idolised by almost everyone he meets. There's something ... almost a little _too_ perfect about him in person, but that may simply be my distrust of anyone who sat out Vortigern's reign without so much as muddying their hems. He certainly seemed earnest about swearing his service."

"He's certainly very pretty to look at, as well," Kay replied, smirking across the table at Goosefat. "A bit arrogant with it; but then, what pretty man isn't?"

Bill tilted his goblet to her, acknowledging the hit and passing it on. "Yes, I've noticed that about our King as well. So at least they'll have that much in common."

"So I'm to take that as endorsement from both of you, then?" Art snorted. He lifted an eyebrow, then turned to Wet Stick. "Tristan?"

"What, are you asking me if he's pretty, or if I liked him?" Wet Stick grinned, then responded more seriously. "I spoke to him a bit before; he definitely knew who I was, but he didn't treat me any different because of it. Had some pretty insightful questions about the riots in Londinium, actually, and the shit those supposedly unaligned Viking bands have been stirring up along the coast."

"Yes, he did seem very well informed; combined with his educated manners and exquisite grooming, he could either be a considerable asset to our diplomatic efforts, or a grave detriment," Maggie agreed, a note of caution in her voice. "The daughters of every lord you treat with are going to fall over themselves to bring him whatever he asks for – and no few of their wives, as well."

Insightful as always; and even without knowing about the apparent magic interference. Art nodded respectfully to Maggie. "An important consideration. George? Percy?"

Both his remaining knights replied that they'd reserve judgment until they'd seen him fight; Percival's heavy involvement with the resistance and George's years of beating martial skill into otherwise untutored boys in Londinium made them good judges of experience, but they had little to go on yet with Lancelot.

"And you, Gawain? What's your opinion?" Art turned last to Blue Boy. 

Back Lack's son was still full young to be anything but a squire, but until any other candidates came into being, he held the position of Arthur's heir as far as the new king was concerned. And Art believed in learning on the job. There were certain aspects of ruling that he'd never know as well as his advisors, purely due to his lack of education, but Blue was still young enough to pick it up for himself without sacrificing the instincts he'd earned as a poor citizen of Londinium. Whether he took the crown next, or served as right hand to some future child of Arthur's, learning to make his own judgments would serve him well.

Blue wrinkled his nose consideringly. "That pointy beard and those too-fancy clothes of his – if I'd seen him on the streets out of armour, I'd have tried to pick his pocket. But he seems like the type who'd catch me at it, and then let me go without calling in the Blacklegs. So I think ... maybe give him a try?"

"Sums it up as well as anything else," Art nodded to him, then turned back to his wife. "Mage?"

"Agreed," she said, then looked round to the others. "Any other concerns?"

No one had any; so he gestured to the servants to send for Lancelot, and to bring in the meal.

Conversation proceeded in a more casual way until the new knight arrived. Kay and Tristan had some kind of low-voiced fractious argument going on on the other side of Blue with frequent glances Art's way, but the king ignored it out of long practice, chatting with Rubio and Percy about the conditions they'd seen in the countryside as they escorted Lancelot to the castle. The majority of the population had mostly settled, particularly those who'd had sons taken as slaves returned to them, but harvest season and the ensuing tax collection were guaranteed to be a problem. They would've been even if Vortigern hadn't been a tyrant, but the popular opinion that the Born King had come to deliver them from every ill would especially not mesh well with the necessities of governing. Hence his recurring arguments over the Blacklegs' fates, as well.

As caught up as he was in the discussion, though, he still felt it the instant Lancelot appeared; every organ and sinew seemed to sit up and take notice, the one between his legs not the least of them. If anything, the effect of the magic had strengthened, not diminished, despite their earlier attempt to defuse it. He met the Mage's eyes with a nod, then stood with the others as the knight was announced, casually positioning himself so the nearest wine jug would block one particular aspect of his profile.

"Sir Lancelot," he led the others in lifting their cups to the newcomer. "Let us welcome you to the Round Table. We're all equals here, so let's not stand on ceremony; we were just discussing the latest Viking raids, and the rumours that Hengist's brother Horsa has been seen among them."

"Your Majesties. Knights and ladies," he nodded back, circling the Table to the empty seat. He seemed entirely unfazed by the makeup of the group; either very uncritical, or very well-informed indeed. "I had heard the same on my travels; more and more longships have been reported landing in Kent. If they're not confronted soon, it will be extremely difficult to root them out with the forces England has available."

"That's our thinking as well," Art agreed, reaching for the nearest platter as they all sat down again. "We've only delayed in dealing with them as long as we have to make sure the country won't break out in civil war when we ride east – and to make sure Hengist won't cry foul when we kick his brother's arse back into the ocean."

"He's still not sure what to make of the legend of the Sword, it seems," Bedivere filled in. "His envoy backed down more quickly than we'd expected when he came for the ten thousand slaves Vortigern had promised. Arthur denied him a confrontation, and so far he has been reluctant to start one in Hengist's name."

Lancelot's interest was clearly piqued by the mention of the Sword; his eyes immediately sought out the hilt at Art's waist, mostly obscured by the table between them, and Art made a note to bring it up with him later. That was the look of a warrior who wanted to test his mettle against another – and it would be just as good a chance for him to test Lancelot further, as well.

"Does the Sword truly make that much of a difference?" the knight asked. "Stories reached us of its power even in Gaul, but my father was not present when Uther wielded it against Mordred's forces, and Bors was in the dungeons when you won the castle, so I've not heard from any eyewitnesses."

"You'll see," Blue spoke up, nodding emphatically. "Excalibur don't answer to anyone but Art – but with it, he can take on a whole army. Took down Vortigern, too, even when he'd turned himself into a demon."

"A demon?" Lancelot's eyebrows lifted, and his attention shifted to the Mage.

"You have met the Lady of the Lake, have you not?" she replied, pointedly. "There is always a balance, and those who seek to uphold it. We have not yet found those who helped Vortigern on his path to power, but they surely exist, even as do those who have helped the Pendragon and his heir."

"Then I look forward to witnessing the Sword's power for myself," he replied smoothly, inclining his head in respect. His eyes lingered avidly on Art again for a moment; then he addressed another comment to the Queen, and the conversation moved on.

The general topic shifted from there to discussion of timing and logistics; it would still be a few days until the loyal barons' troops arrived, mostly a mix of pikemen and archers with a few skilled knights among them. As impressive as Excalibur was, it still took only one lucky shot from an enemy to put a stop to its wielder, and it was much easier to block an army with another than with a single small band of fighters.

It was a productive conversation, and one in which their newest knight acquitted himself well ... but by the time the plates were cleared and the guests dispersed to their quarters for the evening, Art was just as worked up as he'd been after the earlier audience, if not more so. And the Mage's rosy cheeks owed very little to her sparing attention to the wine.

"Well?" Art said pointedly, toying with his cup once they were alone. He'd had the guards shut the doors behind them when everyone else left, leaving just the two of them at the Table.

She bit her lip, then nodded. "It's definitely an enchantment, likely placed on something he values. Not an item of clothing, and not his swords or armour, either; something that he would _always_ have with him. His ring, perhaps, or a favourite knife or other small token."

"And it's definitely targeting _us_. The others seemed less affected, tonight," he agreed.

"Yes. You're affected because I am, because of how we were wed; something the mages who placed the enchantment may or may not have realised. Anyone else would feel a mild encouragement toward their usual inclinations, at best. But though he definitely seemed ... drawn, he didn't seek to put himself forward any more than the others."

"Except when Excalibur was mentioned," he pointed out, laying a hand on the hilt. "If I ask him for a spar tomorrow, do you think you'll be able to narrow it down further?"

Guinevere thought about it, then nodded slowly as she rose from her chair. She gathered up the front of her skirt with long, graceful fingers, then moved to sit on the edge of the Table in front of him, deliberately placing her feet in his lap. "He will shed most of his extra gear to fight – and it will give me more time to observe. Yes, that should help."

Art hissed out a breath as slipper-clad toes brushed over his cock, and slid his hands up under her gown, teasing shivers from her with the scrape of callused fingers against her bare legs. "All right. Is this 'next time', then?"

"Mmm. Your turn to give me something big to think about, perhaps," she replied, grinning down at him.

"Well, who am I to deny the virtues of an education?" he laughed, then pushed her skirt and shift up further, leaning in to apply himself to the task.

She came with his name on her tongue, christening the Table right proper; and if he spent himself again later in private, picturing dark curls and a mobile mouth, who could blame him? One way or another, the next day was _definitely_ going to be a challenge.

Getting Lancelot alone for a spar turned out to be as easy as getting money out of a Viking; he just had to ask him for it. The hard part was getting the others to leave them be. In the end Art had to appropriate one of the castle's inner halls rather than the usual courtyard and promise any number of people that the Mage would be watching over him to get them all to leave him alone with the new knight. Wet Stick and Goosefat were especially persistent; they'd clearly realised something else was going on.

"Your people are very loyal," Lancelot said approvingly as the doors finally shut behind the lot of them.

"I've given them reason to be," Art replied as he stripped his extra layers off and freed Excalibur. He handed the sheath to his wife, and dropped the padded red outer shirt on a table and essayed a few careful stretches to warm his body up. "Some of them I've known most of my life, like Tristan; with others, like Sir William, I had to earn his respect in the field. But loyalty goes the other way, as well. So now that it's just the three of us; what are _you_ really here for, Sir Lancelot?"

The knight didn't bother trying to deny it; he removed the back sheaths he carried his swords in and set them on the table next to Art's castoff shirt, then set his fingers to the frogs of his own garment. "All my life I've known the story of my father; that he fled Vortigern's wrath, and that it would be his death if he tried to return to free my cousins. By the time I was old enough to make my own way, Bors had already escaped to the Resistance, and I had no way of returning without either bending the knee or baring my throat. Now that I have the opportunity to reclaim my family's honour, and our lands – of course I'm going to take it."

"Even if it means bending the knee to the likes of me?" Arthur taunted him.

"I don't like anything that puts a man on his knees," Lancelot replied, with a sardonic twist of his mouth. "But if I must kneel, let it be to a king that truly serves his people, not one that cowers behind high walls."

So far, so good. "Then draw; and let's take one another's measure." 

Art made a beckoning, one-handed gesture with Excalibur, then took one of the showy starting stances George had always kicked the boys' arses for trying to mimic. Lancelot narrowed his eyes at him, then glanced over to the Mage who was studying him with a small, wry smile, and nodded solemnly.

"All right, then," he said, and finished shucking his loose gear: the shirt, an ornate dagger he kept belted at his waist, another tucked into a boot, and the big seal ring on his right hand.

If he hadn't been waiting for it, Art might not have noticed the difference, what with his blood already up in anticipation of the fight; but as the circle of metal slid off Lancelot's finger, the extra background sizzle of the enchantment that had so disrupted Arthur and Guinevere's evening faded, leaving only honest sweat and lust behind. It didn't seem to impair the anticipatory glitter in Lancelot's eyes, though; Art nodded to his wife to make sure she'd felt it too, then made a beckoning gesture with his free hand to his opponent.

Lancelot pulled his swords free of their sheaths, then lunged into motion, whirling toward him in a kinetic dance of steel. Art grinned and lifted Excalibur to meet him, parrying and turning inside the arc of the man's blows to spin back out of range before one of the turning edges could catch flesh, and followed it up with another blow that Lancelot barely blocked a hand's breadth away from him.

The knight's eyebrows lifted at the one-handed move, and the respect in his eyes increased a notch. Hadn't thought Art had that level of skill in him, had he? 

"What, did they tell you it was all the Sword?" he teased.

"Baron Claudas _did_ say you were raised ... beneath your station," Lancelot replied tactfully, essaying another pass with his blades. 

The twin swords moved in his hands as though they were extensions of his arms; it was beautiful to watch, and a little more complicated to deal with than a single blade. But not as much of a mystery as he probably intended to a fighter out of George's school. The only reason the Blacklegs had been such a threat the day they'd followed them to the bathhouse was that Mercia's men all had weapons and armour, while there were only swords enough for a handful of the boys to wield at once, never mind protection.

"I might not have learned at Sir Bedivere's knee, as my father no doubt intended, but there are other schools out there." Arthur parried the blows, made a few testing lunges of his own, then took the first opportunity to swat the flat of the blade across Lancelot's arse; the knight started, then gave him an appreciative nod and shook out his wrists, settling back into an opposing stance.

"I can see that. But when are you going to show me what the Sword can _really_ do?" he pressed, making another quick pass that took a little more effort to turn back.

"Are you sure you're ready for that?" Arthur grinned. "I thought we'd finish taking each other's measure first. Because the moment I put both hands on the hilt, it's all over but the kneeling."

"If you say so," Lancelot replied loftily, and made his own beckoning gesture.

Art threw himself into the fight, still one-handed, and lost himself in the exchange of blades and blows. With knife, stick, fists, and sword, he'd done a lot of fighting since the days every man who thought himself the better of a prostitute's son had taken their anger out on him, and he'd left everyone but George far behind by the time the Blacklegs had taken him upriver. He was pretty sure Lucy and the girls had meant him to take service somewhere as a mercenary, work himself up as high as a man with no known birth could manage; he probably would have, too, if he hadn't decided to made _their_ lives better instead. Lancelot was giving him a run for his money, though; not even Bedivere or Bill could get him breathing that hard one on one, and they'd tested him plenty with lesser blades while he'd recovered from his trip to the Darklands.

"Enough," the Mage finally said, the next time they paused for a breath. She gave him an imperious look from the sidelines, lips slightly swollen where she'd bitten them, watching. "Show him, then."

Her eyes didn't have quite the spark they'd had under the spell, but there was still a certain amount of appreciation in her tone, Art noticed; a good thing, because _he_ needed no help to appreciate the man's form, and he was pretty sure by now that Lancelot wasn't a true threat. "You sure?"

Guinevere nodded, and he smirked at Lancelot before setting both hands on the hilt of the sword.

The room instantly took on a slight blue tint as the world around him slowed to a crawl. He had plenty of time to appreciate the way Lancelot's eyes widened, pupils dilating, as Art moved almost too fast for the eye to track; the knight got his blades up in front of him in a cross just barely in time to check Excalibur's swing. Art pulled the blow just enough not to shatter the other man's weapons, then moved around him in a swirl and swept the blade's tip over a nearby candelabra, a showy move he'd picked up while testing the limits of what the sword could do. He was back in front of Lancelot by the time the candle flames finished lifting off their wicks, sword held upright again in a one-handed grip.

Lancelot glanced between the flames floating upward on trails of smoke and the sword in Arthur's hand with a wondering expression, mouth open in awe. "That is _remarkable_ ," he breathed. "The tales don't do it justice. It truly is a sword worthy of legend – and you, a man worthy of bearing it."

"You've seen what you needed to see, then?" the Mage asked him, gaze softening as she waited for him to answer.

"What I needed, perhaps, but not all I wanted; for that, I fear, is a desire that shall never be fully quenched." Lancelot made an elaborate bow in her direction, then turned and actually sank to one knee in front of Arthur, head bowed. "My swords, if you'll have them, are yours, my king."

Art set a hand on Lancelot's shoulder, and in that moment understood his uncle rather better than he'd have liked. But it wasn't _fear_ moving in his blood that caught his breath with the rich taste of power, it was a compulsion that demanded as much from him as was given.

Every one of the others who sat at his Table meant something important to him in their own way, but Lancelot was the first to offer such unreserved fealty since becoming King; it was an altogether headier experience. Not one to supplant any of those older bonds, but definitely a compliment, filling an absence Art hadn't realised he carried. The problem with growing up bottom of the heap, forced to be stronger than anyone else to get ahead, was that now he was on _top_ of the heap all those fighting instincts had nowhere to go; it seemed the gods had already answered the question before he'd even thought to pose it.

"Oh, I'm _definitely_ keeping you. But I thought I told you last night; we're all equals around my Table. Get up, man; the others'll want to have a go at you, now that I've broken you in."

Their gazes caught and lingered as Lancelot got to his feet; he definitely didn't seem to have a problem with that idea. But his gaze turned to the Mage, his expression just as warm: "Does that include the Queen?"

She smirked at him, Excalibur's sheath still held crosswise in her arms. "I don't fight with weapons. But never fear, I'll have my own tests for you, sir knight."

Lancelot didn't seem to have any problem with that idea, either, even without the spell for encouragement; his gaze was still as intense, and appreciative, as ever. This might work out even better than he'd hoped.

Art went to the door to let the others in, and dealt with the ensuing clamour and chaos; then he drifted back to his wife's side and murmured in her ear as he slid Excalibur back into its sheath. "So. Do we let this go on a while before we tell him, or do we break it to him now? I meant what I told him; I fully intend to take this gift Claudus has given us and turn it to our own use."

She pursed her mouth, then gave him an amused look. "You _do_ like him, then. Even without the magic. I thought you would."

"I do," he nodded, smiling wryly. "He _is_ a little on the dramatic side, but as Bill said last night, that's something we have in common."

"Tell him I wish to speak with him, then; I'll let him know there's a spell, but not that it was set on him as a weapon. You don't need a war with your barons on top of everything else. In the meantime, I'll investigate how to break the enchantment, and confront the rogue mages before they can think up anything worse."

"And if he chases you anyway? Will you let him catch you?" Art had to ask. More out of practicality than anything else; they couldn't afford to have any of their enemies' spies catch her seemingly succumbing to the plot. The last thing he wanted was to have to hang a bunch of nobles for wanting to burn his wife.

They watched him test himself against Goosefat for a moment while she thought about that; then she hummed under her breath. "He _is_ very easy to look at. Would that upset you?"

"You know it wouldn't. Who am I to judge? It's probably better that you sound him out first, anyway; some men can be a little touchy about that kind of offer, even from their king."

"I don't think you need to worry, but I'll let you know," she replied, smirking at him.

"I'll hold you to that," he said, then grinned and turned back to the show, raising his voice. "Chop, chop, lads; George, you've been holding back. Why don't you show him where I learned it all?"

George did, and King and Queen alike spent the rest of the bout quietly admiring the view.

Art waited for a discreet time to pass the Mage's request; meanwhile the magic's effect seemed to grow even stronger rather than weakening with familiarity. But they managed, dampening the spell with the Mage's own magic when there was no opportunity to deal with it more leisurely, and Lancelot kept watching them intently every time they were anywhere in his vicinity. And no few of the castle's other residents started taking notice.

"The Queen seems to have picked up an admirer," Bedivere cautioned him two mornings after Lancelot's introduction; and at noon meal that same day, Kay pulled the Mage aside for a bit of woman's talk, the gist of which was that they needed to watch out for _Arthur's_ virtue. A clearly ridiculous suggestion, as they'd worked under the same roof for years, but she was convinced it was only a matter of time before the haughtier nobles started using his past against him. And what if too-friendly Lancelot was the first?

Sir William seemed to be taking the whole thing with a grain of salt, though; after the sparring incident he watched the three of them with an amused, jaded eye that reminded Art he'd been on Uther's council as well as his, and sapped any remaining desire to ask the man questions about his parents' courtship. And Tristan was as exasperated as Art had known he'd be once he figured it out.

" _Really_ , Art? You're the king now," he said indignantly, pulling him aside that afternoon on their way to a meeting with the first arrivals among the barons.

"What? I forget my crown or something?" he asked, patting at the lighter gold circlet he'd commissioned for day-to-day wear so he wouldn't constantly giving himself a headache with Vortigern's heavy showpiece.

"You know what I'm talking about. Jack's Eye was business, and that thing with the lad from the boats wasn't complicated; it never came back on the brothel. But this Lancelot's neither. He might seem all razzle-dazzle to you now, but the same reasons the barons like him might end up stabbing you through the foot if it all goes wrong."

Art frowned at him. "And what makes you think 'this thing' with Lancelot ain't part both? I won't pull you on it because you're _you_ , but honestly, Wet Stick, the Mage and I have it under control."

"Wait. She knows about...?" Tristan replied, then made a face at himself. "Of course she knows about it. Should have known. Just remember though, if I can catch on, so can they, and nobles are the worst sort of mark to predict when they'll take offense."

"Trust me, there's only one noble I want to take offense, and he'll take it with three feet of steel when the time comes. But he won't know the jig's up unless we _aren't_ making eyes at Lancelot, so don't worry on it too much," he replied, with a wry twist of his mouth and a clap to his shoulder. This was Wet Stick; Art wouldn't go admitting the magic angle to just anyone, but his oldest friend deserved to have a head's up.

Wet Stick's eyebrows crawled up his forehead; then he made a face. "Well, that's one thing we _didn't_ have to worry about back in Londinium. Do we need to be setting a guard on _him_ , then?"

"Nah; he'd have thought he was the gods' gift even without any help, which fact I think the offender in question was counting on. And I doubt I'd have argued, though Guinevere might have," Arthur replied with a smirk. "But trust me; it's being handled."

Wet Stick sighed and rolled his eyes, then nodded and got out of his way. "All right, then. You're the Boss. So long's it doesn't all end in hangings and exile; I've had enough of living in caves for one lifetime."

"I like how you assume the Mage'll be the one to keep the crown, not me," Art snorted.

"Are you kidding me? That woman's _definitely_ the boss of you."

And that was that. Arthur _did_ end up having to pull a few of the barons on their attitude, under Lancelot's appreciative gaze; and that evening he finally got the chance he'd been waiting for.

After some thought, he picked one of the castle's new pages – he'd had Maggie supervise the return of the slaves Vortigern had taken, and hold back the boys who had no family left to take them in – and asked him to send a message to Lancelot after supper. The message was a short one, and written in Guinevere's hand: a request to meet her in her chambers at a certain hour, after the rest of Camelot had taken to their beds.

A less infatuated man, or one less bold, might have sent the page back with his regrets; but for better or for worse, Lancelot seemed no more cautious than his new liege. Art was ready and waiting when the knock came at the Queen's door an hour after her ladies had retired for the night, concealed by the folds of the half-drawn canopy on the far side of her bed.

Lancelot let himself in, dressed far more simply than at dinner in travel-worn clothes without bright trimmings that might catch the eye, save only the seal ring still on his finger. He stopped short at the sight of his host, wearing only a fine shift that revealed far more than it hid in the flickering light of the candles.

"My lady," he said fervently, bending to press a kiss to the back of the Mage's hand. "You summoned me; I am here. What would you will of me?"

"That is the question," she replied, an inscrutable smile curving her mouth. "Your will. You heard Arthur say we are all equals around his Table, and you told him you did not believe in bending the knee. So tell me, with no fear for your answer. Why have you come?"

He looked up, straightening his spine as he assessed her expression, but kept hold of her fingers; Art watched him sweep a thumb over the delicate skin on the back of her hand, and felt the tremor that went through her at the touch as if it were his own. "If you truly want the truth, then here it is; I have burned for you since the moment I laid eyes on you. How am I to resist?"

From the highest bedchamber to the lowest in the land; Art would never have expected a courtier's words to sound so much like a courtesan's, but he probably should have. Human nature was the same no matter a man's station; he'd built a business on that truth back in Londinium, and was building his reign on it now. He shouldn't be surprised it extended even to this.

He bit back a smile and watched his wife's expression as she responded, sounding Lancelot out further. "It is the same with me. But what of my husband?"

"He is my king; and I find I admire him as greatly as I do you. But it is not in my power to deny you anything you ask. Tell me to leave you now, and your wish shall be my command."

"And did you say the same to the lady left behind you in Gaul?" she probed.

"There never was such a lady, for I always knew I would one day return to England. And I have seen only one woman who could compare since I began my travels, one who is no threat to you – the Lady of the Lake, whose blessing I sought on my mother's advice before travelling to Camelot."

She laughed at that, a low, warm sound that went straight to Arthur's cock. "If you seek to convince me that you loved no other before me, I will not believe you; we are not children, and we do not live in a poem."

"And if you sought to convince me that you love no other than me, I would not believe it either; but perhaps I simply dare believe there is no harm in admiration freely expressed?" Lancelot replied. And for all his flowery words, he did seem sincere in them; whatever else the man might be, he was not a coward. "For the blessing the Lady gave me was to ease my welcome and prevent misunderstandings, and so every step I've taken since my arrival has been in earnest."

The Mage's eyes went wide at that audacious declaration, and her eyes dropped to where their hands were still clasped, picking up on something Arthur had not. "She touched your ring. Did she not?"

Lancelot frowned, then drew back his hand and withdrew it from his finger – and the intensity in his expression changed not at all as he handed it over, as if he didn't even notice the magic in it. "You can sense that?" he asked. "I knew she was of your people – but I thought it a prediction...."

Art took that as his cue, circling the bed to stand where the pair at the door could see him, thumbs hooked into the waistband of his trousers. "...Not an enchantment?" he said, with raised eyebrows. "You'll want to be careful making assumptions where mages are concerned; they're fond of their wordplay."

Guinevere shot him a dirty look, then cupped the ring between her two hands and turned her focus to it as Lancelot glanced between the two of them with widening eyes.

"Your majesty, I don't...."

"Mage?" Art cut him off, as his wife's mouth pursed in realisation.

" _You_ were the target after all, not me," she said, with some surprise. "But if it was her doing, and not a rogue mage, she must have known I would notice! I don't understand the purpose."

"You're not the only one," Lancelot frowned, glancing between them. "What is going on here?"

Arthur had met the Lady of the Lake only once himself: on that memorable night after the assassination attempt in Londinium, when he'd brooded over the friends he'd lost since taking up the Sword and tried to cast it away. She'd confronted him with a vision of what would happen if he truly abandoned the cause: maid, mother and crone kneeling amid the wrack of Londinium, death spreading through the land like a plague with no one to stop it. There'd been no choice, not one he could have made and still called himself a man. But his soul had seared with the pain of it when he'd taken hold of the sword again ... and she had known it would when she'd asked it of him.

"I think I do," he said, the picture suddenly coming clear. He should have remembered his own advice on the subject of friends and enemies; he'd been looking at this all the wrong way. "What was it you told me – where there's poison, there is a remedy?"

He saw the light catch in the Mage's eyes as she picked up his meaning; he'd told her about the encounter two days later, when Bedivere had redeemed her from Vortigern's not-so-tender care. She'd wondered what had made him so suddenly reckless, and he'd seen no reason not to tell her. Her hand tightened around the ring, and she closed her eyes for a moment, lids fluttering as she murmured under her breath.

"You're right," she said, wonderingly. "There is no compulsion; it creates nothing, only ... reveals."

They turned as one to Lancelot, contemplating the many encounters they'd spent burning off what Art had been picking up from the other man, and watched as his eyes widened.

"He really _does_ think he's the gods' gift, doesn't he then," Art marvelled, before the conversation could get derailed by questions of honour. He'd thought stricken-at-first sight was a matter for fairy stories! "And it turns out, he just may be. What do you think, should we accept?"

"Well, I _did_ say I would have my own test for him," she replied, equally bemused.

Lancelot glanced between them again, then cleared his throat, once more visibly casting caution to the wind. "I'm not sure I followed all of that ... but either the gods have been very, very kind to me, or very, very cruel. I beg of you, my lord and lady; put me out of my misery, or send me away to contemplate my sins."

"Be careful how you talk about sins to a man raised in a brothel," Art chided, plucking the ring back out of the Mage's fingers and handing it back to its owner. "Because if you meant that to be a choice, then you've got some lessons coming."

Lancelot's breath caught, and his eyes darkened further. "I must be asleep somewhere in my bed; either that or back on the road lying feverish somewhere, being granted a glimpse of Heaven," he said, sliding the ring back onto his finger.

"Flatterer," the Mage said, stepping closer as the magic reignited in a burst of dizzying wonder and arousal. "I will not often ask for this; it is more my husband's desire," she added, warningly. "But tonight, I think you owe me a little compensation."

She set her hands on his chest and leaned in; Lancelot froze for one long, interminable moment as her lips pressed against his, then groaned and took her into his arms, one arm round her shoulders and the other under her arse as he lifted her against him for better access.

"Terms accepted," he said hoarsely when the kiss broke, then cast a questioning glance toward Arthur.

"Get on with it then," Art grinned, gesturing toward the bed. "You don't want to keep the lady waiting."

In another world, with a different set of circumstances and expectations, what happened next might have been the end rather than the beginning: a step toward the destruction of Camelot rather than a new-laid cornerstone. But to a fighter who'd lived most of his life as a nothing from nowhere, who'd wed for trust rather than romance, a companion for bed and battlefield was the best dowry Arthur could have asked for.

Lancelot walked her over to the bed and swept back the coverings with an impatient arm, then made a show of taking off his clothes; even his travel garb was fancier enough than Art's that it took a moment to get all the fastenings undone. Guinevere was bare before he was, her shift pooling in a heap of pale cloth on the stone floor; Art hastily took a seat on the nearest piece of furniture and settled in to appreciate the view.

It was the work of a moment to free his cock from his trousers, already ruddy and straining with anticipation; he licked his palm as he watched Lancelot's clever tongue wring cries of pleasure from his wife, then took himself in hand, matching his rhythm to theirs. He'd seen a lot of people fuck over the years, but never like this: someone bound to him by ties of law and magic with her fingers buried in the curly hair of a man whose desires Art could feel as if they were his own. 

It seemed like no time at all before the Mage was arching off the bed, clenching around Lancelot's fingers. Art spent over his own hand at the sight, then swore as his erection twitched back to life. Lancelot had shifted up the bed to claim Guinevere's mouth, still stroking her gently through the aftermath of her climax – but he hadn't come yet himself, and the magic still echoed with it.

It hadn't occurred to Art that there might be a difference between a fire kindled and then left to burn out, and one still burning right in front of him; it was a good thing he'd thought to bring a vial of oil. And even better that it was the day _after_ tomorrow they'd be leaving to ride to Kent, because like hell he was leaving now.

He wiped his hand on his shirt, then stripped it off and strode over to the bed, dropping it to join the growing pile on the floor. Then he leaned over to kiss his wife's forehead. The Mage smiled up at him, warm and satisfied and a little overstimulated around the edges; he smiled back at her, then turned his attention to their visitor.

"Come to join us?" Lancelot asked, voice rough with lust; stretched out next to the Mage, cock still hard and framed by the rich colours of the bed coverings, he looked like something out of one of the erotic frescos in the brothel.

"Come to join _you_ ," Art corrected him, smiling. "If my lady's had enough for the evening?"

Lancelot blinked, then lifted his hand to glance at his ring and looked over at Guinevere as if just remembering what had set it all off; she just shook her head and pressed another kiss to his mouth, then tugged the gold band off with quick, deft fingers and rolled to the edge of the bed. 

"For now; there can be too much of a good thing, you know? I'll go join Kay, and we'll make sure you're not interrupted too early tomorrow morning."

Art chuckled and handed her her shift. "You're a jewel."

"I know. Enjoy yourselves," she said archly, shrugging the loose garment on, then lit a spark of magic over her hand and headed for the door out into the hall.

"Sometimes I think I don't deserve any of the people in my life," Art said, watching her leave. Then he turned back to Lancelot, eyeing his flushed, neglected cock with an acquisitive eye, and finished kicking off his own trousers. "Fortunately, they seem to appreciate me anyway. So what do you think – still feel like offering me your sword?"

The hint of uncertainty cleared from Lancelot's expression at Arthur's casual acceptance, and he grinned, self-possession returning as he eyed Arthur in turn. "Wondering at my good fortune, actually. At least – assuming you actually plan on taking hold of it?"

Art was going to have to apologise to Wet Stick; they'd still have to deal with the rogue mages eventually, but he couldn't leave him thinking he'd been cursed after all. And the gods only knew what Goosefat would say when he found out – or Blue – and the headaches it would give Maggie trying to find a way to defuse any rumours for public consumption.

In the moment, though, none of that mattered; for all the hardship he'd faced, for all the challenges that still lay before them....

Sometimes, it really was good to be king.


End file.
